


Here it was they lit the flame (Phantoms at the window)

by DaggerDaggerDagger (SnapbackPirat)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Because Scanlan would've like that I think, Epilogue, I personally don't ship it that much but there's a nod to it, Implied major character deaths, Indirect spoilers for 5X08 "The Frigid Doom", Mentions of minor characters, Minor Character Deaths, Sad, Title is a Les Mis reference, Vaxleth is implied/referenced only because of canon, indirect spoilers, just lots of sad tbh, vox machina - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 17:49:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8170489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnapbackPirat/pseuds/DaggerDaggerDagger
Summary: Many years ago, there was a group of adventurers called Vox Machina. They saved the world, at great expense. Time passed. The world changed. Fact turned to history, history turned to legend.They passed....There is a gnome, who loves all the children of the village and will sing a song or recite a funny limerick without much prompting. He’s old, and wise, and not just a little bit raunchy. He lives on the cusp of their little bubble of humanity, but socializes plenty within the village itself, and is known and liked among all the villagers, big and small.There are seven pillar candles in his window. [ Ep. 68 scarred me, so this is me coping. No spoilers past "The Frigid Doom". ]





	

Many years ago, there was a group of adventurers called Vox Machina. They saved the world, at great expense. Time passed. The world changed. Fact turned to history, history turned to legend.

They passed.

...

There is a gnome, who loves all the children of the village and will sing a song or recite a funny limerick without much prompting. He’s old, and wise, and not just a little bit raunchy. He lives on the cusp of their little bubble of humanity, but socializes plenty within the village itself, and is known and liked among all the villagers, big and small.

There are seven pillar candles in his window.

They’ve always been there, as long as anyone and their great grandparent had known him.

Although they are all lit, none have ever waned.

The first is red with elegant gold lines and runes in them, draconic in nature some villagers whispered. It is rather regal, they do admit, and there’s a small image that none have gotten close enough to make out. The few people who have been inside the gnome’s home tell of a single word in common carved in gold on the back- “poppycock”. It sits on a scrap of tattered fabric.

The second is a deep, rich, night-sky blue with delicate but purposeful gold and white lines intersecting in what must be some meaningful shape. There are four circles on side facing the window, two larger and two smaller, which connects all the lines. On the back, the neighbors whisper, there is an entire novel written in astonishingly small print- and, at the bottom, in larger print, a phrase that not one of them can figure out what that means. It sits upon a small chunk of jagged glass, smoothed only enough for a candle to rest on it.

The third is a large white candle, much larger than the rest- deep, thick black lines stand in stark and wild contrast to the pale pillar. The lines are harsh, but definitely intentional. Some outsiders, when shown the recreated sketches one of the villagers has created, speak of a roaming goliath clan full of both those of the race and non-goliaths, who sign on as mercenaries for villages looking for aid. It sits in a place of pride upon a large, thick swath of leather, with little trinkets like salt stones and gold pieces scattered around it. There are no runes or words on the back of it, only four images; a mug, an axe, a buxom woman, and a mug.

Next to that, dwarfed if it were not also pushed forward, is a small candle of pale blue. The mark of Sarenre is painted lovingly in gold  among delicate white lace frills. A few of the older villagers actually remembered a time when that candle glowed gold... and the time it went out. Their gnome friend had drawn the curtains, shuttered the windows, locked the doors, and not come out for many days. Some insisted they’d seen him sneak into the ancient sewer system beneath the city that night, that they heard bodiless weeping in the streets; none could prove they were right. The gnome emerged some days later, looking smaller, paler, tired. Words inscribed themselves in gold upon the candle. No one dared to pry. It rested on a small golden stand that shone and glimmered like no other.

Next to that, there were two black candles, alike in size in color, and yet different; while both held identical white imprints, one was wrapped with twinkling blue twine, three feathers caught within- two blue, and a single owlbear feather. Elven wrapped playfully around in the opposite direction of the other. Among the twine there seemed to be short brown hairs twisted in. 

The other was was adorned with a sparkling thread of green, both a snake and crow skull at the base. Curling elven wrapped around, both strands twining into phrases that appeared to complete each other when the candles were placed next to each other. None in the village knew the language of the elves. None would have recognized the long forgotten dialect of a city far, far away.

The final candle stood the same height as the other two, trapping the black candle with green thread between it and the candle with blue twine; It was a bright, mottled green,with bright red carvings of plants and animals dancing around the column in a merry procession, accompanied by images depicting the four elements; earth, wind, water, fire.

It was the only candle that burned red; the others, even the white, after a long few days of remaining unlit, glowed with an unsettling black flame, cold to the touch of whoever passed by them.

The villagers asked many questions over the course of the gnome’s stay; when did you arrive in town? How long are you planning on staying? What was life like a hundred, two hundred, three hundred years ago? Can you sing us another song? Can you speak another written word?

What do the candles mean?

For that last one, no one ever quite got the answer, and all who dared ask felt unimaginably rude, and completely miserable for the remainder of the week. There were a few people who observed the gnome sobering in his attitude and glancing over at a far cabinet, behind the glass of which there were even more candles resting; some glowed black, like a rich purple one dressed in gold bands; some remained lit, like a deep crimson candle covered in white runes, some of which the villagers would whispers, was demonic in nature; wax dripped down that particular candle like a demon’s red tail.

Either way, none got a straight answer from the gnome, and none pestered him further about the matter.

Many, many years passed in this way; the gnome accepted visitors from outside the town, and the town grew with every bit of traffic. A lady gnome, fierce in expression but tender with the children would often visit the elderly gnome. Some observed she had similar coloring to their resident; many did not make a point of disturbing him about it. He revealed on his own that she was his daughter, and the village accepted her lovingly as one of its own.

Many more years passed, and then the men with guns came.

They were many and fierce, and did not care for the lives of those they were threatening. A villain of ill-intent marched upon the town with them, his head held high and eyes dead as he commanded the slaughter of hundreds in the streets. He swept through the village easily, intent on claiming it as his own; until he reached the edge of town.

There was a blinding light, a ball of fire; a wild, echoing, thrumming voice and then... silence.

The invader hadn’t even been in the town long enough for his name to be learned before he vanished as soot on the wind.

Their gnome stood before the wreckage, calm expression a dull mask for his fury. A sword hanging limp in his white fist, glinting and vibrating all on its own, a soft hum emanating from it. A strange, white cone was clutched in his other fist.

An unearthly large, incorporeal, bright purple glimmering hand levitated behind him.

There were celebrations and mourning. There were drinks and tears. There were the people of the town, thanking the gnome, asking why, how, what?

“Those guns didn’t belong to him,” the gnome said, with a tired fury. “They don’t belong with anyone.”

After helping the town with the burials, the gnome... vanished. A few said they’d seen him gathering a small bag, the sword, the cone, and had left during the celebrations.

His daughter watched over his house for him, fiercely protecting it from all, despite the fact none dared to challenge her right to it. Their gnome was a hero. When he came back, there would be always be a place for him in their village.

Many years passed. The village thrived, turning into a bustling town full of history and trade. Children turned into adults, and soon into parents; parents who passed down the story of their gnome friend, and would bring their children by his house to visit the gnome’s daughter and view the candles, which remained ever-lit.

Lore passed along the hands of those passing through to those within; the gnome traveled far and wide, dismantling regimes built off the power of a gun, and destroying any evidence of such a device and making sure no one would be able to make them ever again. He gathered more than a few allies in the endeavor.

_ That’s our friend,  _ the townspeople would say, voices dripping with pride.  _ He hails from Westruun! _

It was many years before he returned, and when he did so he was tired, and much older in spirit, but just as willing to spread stories and jokes and act just as raunchy as he once had.

The candles had remained lit.

And so, the years remaining passed in relative peace; technology advanced, as did the study of magic, but no guns were seen, and no violence was brought upon their thriving town.

And then  _ she _ came.

...

He heard the knock on the door and hobbled over to it, ignoring Kaylie and the prominent ache in his knees. “Take this as a warning, Kaylie, don’t do the stupid shit I did when I was your age,” he jokingly told her. She rolled her eyes and went to put the kettle on.

When he opened the door, those shoddy knees of his nearly gave out from beneath them; the ethereal vision in flowing robes was enough to strike him silent.

“Scanlan,” Keyleth smiled serenely, the overwhelming presence of her power diminishing in the light of that familiar smile. She was older, wiser, more mature; but the familiar glint in her eyes made his heart ache ferociously. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, and he stood there, gaping like a fish out of water. She giggled, and he nearly fell.

“Never thought I’d see the day anyone made you speechless,” she admitted playfully. “May I come in?”

“Of course, Kiki,” Scanlan said, his withered voice showing his age. “You’re always welcome in Scanlan’s Magnificent Mansion.”

Keyleth threw her head back and laughed, and glided elegantly into his humble house, quipping back an insult to his ‘mansion’.

...

A few days later, the gnome died.

Kaylie informed a few of the townspeople and let it spread; those that heard from her directly noted that she looked fresh out of tears, her eyes puffy, but her voice as strong as ever.

“He lived a good long life, my da,” she murmured, absently tracing the condensation dripping down her mug of ale, on the house. “I’m just glad at least one of his friends was able to be there for him in his final days.”

A few strode past his house and left their offerings and blessings; wreaths, flowers, notes pinned to his almost laughably short fence. The whole town attended his funeral, and while the presence of the ethereal outsider would have distracted them on a good day, there was not much good to be had that day.

Still, there was much merriment, as their beloved Scanlan would have wanted; they sung and feasted and made many grand speeches, from the eldest to the youngest. The ethereal outsider watched over them all peacefully; those who conversed with her noted that she spoke of the gnome with a fire in her eyes even as a few watery tears slipped out; she stepped evenly, even while intoxicated, as the earth seemed to rise to meet her feet; when the drunk and mourning began to get rowdy, a cold breeze seemed to emanate from her and force the rowdy to crowd together and commiserate.

It was a splendid, sorrowful night, and a painful morning following; many stayed in bed, but the few that did not would soon spread the word--

There was another candle in Scanlan’s window.

It sat in between the large white and smaller, light blue one; It was purple, with wonderfully elaborate golden swirls; covered in music notes and poems on lines that wrapped around the pillar with careless abandon, but all seemed to mesh into one big story.

The flame glowed black, like all but one of the others.

That was the day the ethereal outsider left, but not before completing one final task; after placing the candle and gently stroking the black and green one with her knuckle, she found her way outside the town. There, she raised her staff, spoke a few echoing, commanding words in an unknown language, and  _ slammed  _ it on the ground.

Within the center of the town, a large cave formed, somehow in the spot where no one stepped; astonishingly, it was not so much a sinkhole as a fully-formed stairwell into the abandoned sewer system of Westruun that all had but forgotten existed.

When the first brave few took torches down into the depths, they marveled at what they found--

A mural.

A story.

And there, untouched by time, an image of their beloved gnome, among seven others.

Kaylie, when asked about the heroics of her father and his friends, only raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, I could have told you that.” She said, and shortly after, did.

...

Many years ago, there was a group of adventurers called Vox Machina. There are many stories about them, and many half-remembered marks left behind.

They saved the world. They died. They passed into legend.

And then, they reemerged, in a bustling little town called Westruun.

They were rediscovered. Their tale was retold. Maybe with less accuracy, but with just as much care.

Their paths were rediscovered. Their historical value was acknowledged, and they were put into many texts as the saviors of the world of the age.

Vox Machina, in the hearts and minds of many... live on.

**Author's Note:**

> Ep. 68 got me bad, so this is me, coping... By killing basically everyone else too... yeah.  
> Also, any mistakes are my own, don't be scared to point them out! I hope you enjoyed reading!


End file.
